It wasn't easy being Scorpius Malfoy. For one thing,
you had to deal with your grandfather being a raving lunatic. For another,
everyone in your school thought it awfully suspicious that you weren't exactly
like him, or at the very least, like your father. For that matter, Scorpius
found himself terribly confused when it came to his father. He'd read enough to
know that his father had done some things in the last war that were pretty
despicable, but it didn't square with Draco Malfoy he knew at all. This didn't
apply to his grandfather, though – the things he'd allegedly done
Scorpius found perfectly believable. Whether it's because of Dad or Old
Crazy, I don't know, but it'd certainly be nice if Rose and her whole family
didn't act like I had a particularly contagious strain of dragon-pox, he
thought as he rode the broom towards Hogsmeade. Not a bad broom at all! In
fact it's way smoother than the old “Thunderbird 7” that I use at school! He
looked closely at the handle to check for the brand and model number, but to
his surprise he found none. If anything, the broom looked rather old, but he
was an experienced flyer – best Seeker Slytherin had had in years – and he knew
he was sitting on a very fine piece of wood indeed. Should check it out
later, he told himself and then his thoughts turned, as they so often did,
to Rose again.

What was it about her that he found so fascinating? He
had often asked himself that. It shouldn't be that difficult to fathom, after
all, Scorpius was firmly convinced that Rose was probably the only person in
Hogwarts who didn't realise how unbelievably beautiful she was. But it wasn't
just her thick brown hair, delicate features and slender waist that he found
irresistible. Wasn't she the first 'friend' he had made back on the Hogwarts
Express? Wasn't she the girl who had stood up for him back in their second year
when James Potter and his friends had tried to hex him for no better reason
than that 'He's a Malfoy'? Hadn't she been the one who always laughed at his jokes
in class, who attended all his Quidditch matches and clapped loudest when he
caught the snitch (even against Gryffindor)? Wasn't she just the sweetest,
gentlest...

His reverie was interrupted by the appearance of the
rooftop of the cottage that housed Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes – easily
identifiable by the prominent “W” that was emblazoned across it. Socrpius eased
into a landing on the tarmac outside the shop, only to be greeted by a “Closed
for Business” sign hung on the door.

He dismounted the broom and walked over to the
shop-front. A number of products were on display – the classics like the
Skiving Snackbox and the Canary Creams jostled for space with the latest
innovations like the Mucking Mouse and Stepny Stork.

Bit early to be closed, he thought as he
brushed his cloak down, but Rose said I should check in on him, so I guess I
should. He knocked on the door, knowing that even if the shop was closed,
Mr. Weasley would probably still be inside the shop taking inventory or
something. On finding no response for several minutes, Scorpius did what he
thought was the most obvious thing in the world – he blasted an “Alohomora!”
at the lock, at which it shot open like it had been stung.

The next moment, Scorpius wished he had given up at
the first instance and headed off to the Three Broomsticks for a drop of
Butterbeer, because he found himself staring down the barrel of what he
recognised as a Muggle gun.

*****

His first instinct was to run. Scorpius Malfoy had no
illusions about being particularly brave. His father had always impressed upon
him the importance of minding his own business and he'd largely followed that
maxim. The Sorting Hat had detected this as well, of course. Scorpius clearly
remembered sitting on that wooden stool and putting on the threadbare hat which
said, straight off,

“Ah, another Malfoy – been a while since we had one of
you...Slytherin like your father I suppose? Not hard-working enough for
Huffflepuff, that I can see and though talented not exactly thirsty for knowledge.
How do you feel about Gryffindor?”

“No, my grandfather would slaughter me!” he had said
as clearly as he could in his mind.

“Just as I thought. If you're scared of old Lucius I
certainly don't think you have any business in the house of the brave at heart.
Off to SLYTHERIN with you!”

At some point during this rehashing of his memories
Scorpius realised that he would most likely be shot if so much as dared to
move.

“Drop that wand,” the man at the other end of the gun
shouted.

Scorpius, who had been holding the wand lightly in his
right hand, dropped it to the ground without creating a fuss. He allowed
himself to get a good look at his captor as he was shoved into the room and the
door closed behind him. The man looked old but sprightly and had piercing blue
eyes and a thinning head of white hair.

“Wrong time to come breaking and entering, lad,” his
assailant said in a mocking tone.

“Was just looking for Mr. Weasley,” said Scorpius.
“I'm one of his best customers.”

“Saw a little more than you were looking for, didn't
you?” the man said, picking up Scorpius' wand from the floor. “Pretty useless
without this little stick, you fellers are. Take your pal Weasley over there –
I laid him out cold with a golf club to the head. All the magic in the world
ain't no good if you don't have this wand.”

Scorpius looked towards where the man was pointing as
he said this, and winced to see George Weasley lying in the corner, a stream of
blood trickling down his head from a nasty wound in his left temple. He did
appear to be breathing, which was a relief, but Scorpius wondered how much
longer.

“I'd just like to...,” he began

“Wondering who I am and how I got here and why I
attacked Weasley?”

“No, actually I -”

“I'm not going to tell you, lad, because I will be
pumping a bullet through your brain before I put one through Weasley here, just
ab-”

He probably didn't have much more to say, given that
he had already cocked the gun, but he was prevented from completing even that
by the fact that his pants had caught fire.

The effect of feeling one's tender bits do an
imitation of popping corn tends to be instantaneous. The gunman screamed,
dropped both the gun and Scorpius' wand and fell to the ground in an agony of
pain, clutching his crotch.

Scorpius bent to take his wand back and pointed it at
the gun, transfiguring it into a screwdriver. This done – and feeling a lot
safer for it – he proceeded to cast a binding spell on the man, using magical
ropes to tie him up.

“As I was saying, my friend, I'd just like to point
out that most wizards can do a little wandless magic, like setting an object on
fire. Dashed useful, isn't it? Not a very powerful spell as a rule – the one I
lit in your privates is already dying down. Pity – it certainly warmed up the
place.”

He walked over to where George Weasley was lying and
examined the wound. It didn't look too bad and Scorpius knew a basic healing
spell or two, so he was able to stem the flow of blood easily enough. He shook
the unconscious man to his senses.

George Weasley was no longer the lissome redhead of
two decades earlier. He was quite stout and his hair had begun to thin, but he
still had a youthful, smiling face that peeled off years when he gave the
trademark Weasley grin. He wasn't exactly grinning when Scorpius helped him to
his feet, but that was probably to be expected in the circumstances.

“All right, Mr.W?” asked Scorpius.

“I think so, though I should probably come see Poppy
about my head. What on earth's happened here?”

“I think I just happened to come in before this person
here shot you with a Muggle gun.”

“A Muggle gun? Most extraordinary! Why in the name of
my Uncle Bilius' overcoat would he do that? Did I prank you in a particularly
bad way when I was young and didn't know any better, my good man?”

An angry mumble was the only response. Scorpius,
always one to do things thoroughly, had ensured that a strand of the magical
rope was tightly wound around the man's mouth rendering him speechless.

“I guess I owe you my life, young man,” said George,
gently massaging his head. “Wait a minute, aren't you Malfoy's son?”

“I'm Scorpius Malfoy,” was the simple response.

“Well well well, never thought I'd owe a Malfoy
anything but a punch in the snooter,” said George, shaking his head as he
walked behind the shop counter and reached down, “though I mean no offence to
present company, of course. I suppose your father mentioned his rivalry with my
family when we were in school together?”

“Hey, don't get me wrong, kid,” said George earnestly,
“I wasn't an angel back then either – we all did and said things I'm sure we
find silly now – though I make a living out of encouraging that sort of stuff.
Get it out of the system in your school-days and you can be more mature when
you're out, I've always felt. Look at that ass Tom Riddle, your grandfather's
old friend – was a model student in his Hogwarts days and broke out into
quite a blaze of very opprobrious behaviour in later life. Butterbeer?”

Scorpius couldn't help smiling. He was used to being
defensive about his family and their former connections, especially around
anyone connected with the Weasleys. But this man seemed to have a knack for
taking things in his stride and putting a humorous perspective on them.
Scorpius decided George Weasley was his favourite member of the Potter-Weasley
clan barring, of course, Rose. Since everyone else he knew from the clan had
hexed him at least once, this wasn't a very difficult rating to make.

“Wouldn't mind a sip,” he said, and perched himself on
a stool. “What do you intend to do about our friend here?”

“Call the Auror squad I guess. D'you think he's
actually a muggle?”

“Or a squib. Don't you know him at all? Why would he
come here of all places?”

“Very puzzling, given that I keep all my money in
Gringotts. For a non-magical person to risk trying to rob a wizard...well he
almost did until you came in, of course. How did you take care of him?”

“Wandless incendio,” replied Scorpius,
accepting the bottle that was offered to him. “Lit up his privates quite
nicely. Observe the burn marks.”

“Exhibit duly noted. That's not a bad piece of magic
there – very good work. He'd have shot me for sure if you hadn't?”

“He'd have shot me first. Do you think we should
interrogate him?”

“I'll owl the Auror department. Hope they get here
soon.”

Scorpius continued to sip his drink while the older
man sent his owl.

“So - Scorpius, did you say your name was?”

“Yes. Don't ask me why. I wasn't consulted.” He smiled
wryly.

“The sins of the parents, young man – I have a sister
called Ginevra. So while we wait – whatever happened to Draco Malfoy? He
completely dropped out of everyone's sight after the war until a few years ago
when he resurfaced at the Hogwarts Express platform.”

“Dad pretty much had to drop out of sight. The
Ministry confiscated the family property and left us with nothing to live on.
I'm told we were rich before the war.”

“Loaded. Lucius Malfoy was one of the richest wizards
in Great Britain. The Ministry did sort of extract a heavy price for not
putting your family in Azkaban.”

“Well I never knew that life. Dad wasn't likely to get
a paying job in the Wizarding World either after that, so he took a house in a
Muggle neighbourhood in Surrey with what we got from selling the few artifacts
we had left and took a job in a Muggle company selling lawnmowers. It was a
struggle – still is. Grandpa lives with us and he's plain off his rocker –
can't stop talking about the old days and shouts and yells sometimes to be
reunited with the dark lord. Grandmother is mostly just depressed and silent.
Dad's rather reserved and distant with all of us, like he's weighed down by the
responsibility of caring for us. I almost think he was disappointed I turned
out magical and not a squib like Mom, since it meant he had to re-enter the
Wizarding world.”

“Your mother is Daphne Greengrass' sister, right? I
remember Daphne – very beautiful girl. Never saw Astoria, she being a squib and
stuff. Where'd she go to school?”

“King's, Warwick. Mom's pretty much the one who's kept
us going – she's been a pillar of strength and support for us through it all.”

“I know the feeling,” said George softly. “Are you
going back to Hogwarts now? It's pretty late.”

“I promised to wait for Rose here, so I'll stay if you
don't mind – it's very strange but she actually told me to come here and check
if you were all right.”

“Rose? Ron's daughter? Did she say any more? Where's
she?”

It occurred to Scorpius that he had left Rose very
clearly trying to hide from something or someone. This would be a tricky one to
get out of.

“I left her back at school, I guess. She couldn't get
away because she was playing Wizard's chess with Moose but said she'd be coming
along later. Then she seemed to remember something and asked me to check on you
– said she'd seen something in Divination and though she was sure it was a load
of humbug she thought it best to be safe.”

“Don't tell me the girl is turning out to be a seer. Hermione
would be scandalized. Wonder when those damn Aurors will get here. Are you sure
you've got our friend bound tight?”

“Quite sure. You can ask your nephews how effective
the spell is,” Scorpius responded with a sly smile. “Though I suppose at times
like this one wishes telephones worked in Hogsmeade.”

“Tsk tsk...these family feuds...on the other hand, I
suppose the Potters give as good as they get?”

“I like to think I have the upper hand, Mr. Weasley.”

George shook his head with a smile and opened another
bottle – this time of Firewhiskey.

“Care for a drop?”

“I probably shouldn't.”

“I'll probably regret it too, since this is some of my
best stock. So, tell me – what goes on within the noble walls of Hogwarts
nowadays? Do they still remember the Weasley twins?”

*****

Scorpius couldn't remember the last time he had spent
as pleasant an evening, despite the fact that he had nearly been killed and the
would-be murderer had fixed a baleful glare on them all the time. They put a
deafening charm on him and treated him like a piece of furniture. Scorpius had
been raised, as he had said, in a Muggle neighbourhood and had little exposure
to magic outside his own home. Hearing George Weasley talk about Hogwarts in
his day, living under the shadow of the Dark Lord's second coming, about
Dumbledore, Umbridge, Snape and all those relics of a bygone era made what he
had read in the history books somehow become more alive. His father never spoke
about it, though he had a part in it, and Scorpius knew little of what role his
family had actually played beyond the fact that his grandmother Narcissa had,
at one point of time, held the fate of the war in her hand. This he knew
because he had read about it in the Daily Prophet archives in the
Hogwarts school library – it was the report on the war trials in which Lucius
and Narcissa Malfor had been given a suspended sentence in view of the
'extenuating circumstances put forth by Harry Potter'. He'd read about the
heroes of the war as well – about Harry Potter, Ron Weasley and Hermione
Granger. About Neville Longbottom, who had killed Nagini, the Dark Lord's
monstrous familiar. About Theodore Nott, the only Slytherin to return with
Professor Slughorn to fight on the side of what was right. About Remus Lupin and
Nymphadora Tonks, whose son Teddy had been the head boy a couple of years
before Scorpius had entered Hogwarts. About the Creevy brothers, only one of
whom had survived the war.

Talking to George Weasley was like living a part of
that history. Here was someone who had been in it, who had lost a brother and
was living with the scars every day – in a way, just like his father who lived
with the scars of having chosen the losing side.

They didn't even see the lengthening shadows outside
as the darkness crept up and twilight gave way to night. In fact they were both
rather surprised when they heard the clock chime for seven in the evening even
as a knock sounded on the door.

“Must be the Aurors,” said George walking to the door,
which opened to admit Harry Potter.

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About Me

Percy Slacker was bitten by Schrodinger’s Cat as a child, and has since then combined a deep fear of cats with an
abiding conviction that he both exists and does not exist at the same
time. This existential doubt has led him
to grow up to be a writer while not actually being a writer.

He lives in Mumbai with his family, his book collection and a firm
conviction that modern civilization is in an interminable decline.